


Imperfect

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fluff at very end, Inspired by irl, M/M, Mentions of overdosing, Mentions of rape (but no actual rape), Weight Issues, mentions of drug abuse, mystrade, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft reigned supreme in his cool confidence and sleek suits. He took shelter in both, a far cry from the awkward, self-conscious, and overweight teenager from his youth. But underneath his frozen facade, the same insecurities still plagued him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta'd and not Brit-picked. It's late, I'm depressed, and soooo not procrastinating on my other stuff.  
> Sadly (and I feel the need to say this; I don't know why) inspired by my own real life. So if someone tells you you're beautiful, you should believe them and ignore everyone else. Including yourself.
> 
> Warnings: **self-hate, lots of weight issues, attempted rape** (but it doesn't go anywhere), **lots of drug use** (mentioned but important to plot).

Mycroft never wanted to be a politician. He knew he'd never be able to handle the ridicule and insults that came with exposing oneself to the world so thoroughly. So he built himself a nest - deep in the British government, far out of sight of the prying masses - where he could control _everything._ And it was perfect. He rarely had to leave his office, and everyone in the world who mattered owed him a favor by the time he was 27 because his nest saw everything, was so central in the government. By his third decade on Earth, he had more world power than the President of the United States, and more control over the British government than the Prime Minister himself. And no one even knew he existed.

Well, one man did. There was one loose end that knew more about Mycroft than both his parents combined - though they tried, God bless their small brains and big hearts. This man had seen him at his rawest, and that fact haunted Mycroft.

\--------

Mycroft had always been more academic than athletic, and developed a taste for the finer things in life when he was away at boarding school. That included food, the richer the better. Mycroft was teased mercilessly about his weight, even though he had been far from obese.

But he wanted to go into government, and the fact that he was imperfect was inexcusable, so he worked hard to get his weight down and keep it there. He found exercising to be a simple enough task that allowed him to think at the same time. Though far from enjoyable, it was endurable. And it was necessary.

That quiet, solid determination quickly became an integral part of his character, especially as he started working in government. He found all those late nights, early mornings, and missed meals not only kept him thin but put him miles ahead of the employee next door. He advanced rapidly and was equally successful. He was able to do twice the work of a normal man, which gave him lots of time for extra projects. He quickly became known as the man who could solve any problem, and he garnered favors and connections. It wasn't long before his nest was in place.

Mycroft reigned supreme in his cool confidence and sleek suits. He took shelter in both, a far cry from the awkward, self-conscious, and overweight teenager from his youth. But underneath his frozen facade, the same insecurities still plagued him.

His suits were a shell, and wall he could hide behind. To take that shell off, to bare himself for anyone, down to his very soul, was something he couldn't do. To open himself to ridicule and rejection, when he'd received only both from his peers and his sibling, was beyond him. He was being a coward and he knew it, but promised himself away to his work anyway. He didn't need anyone; people only stung. He could live a content and busy life without them.

And he did. The more power and responsibility he took on, the more time he was forced to devote to work and the less time he had to worry about inconsequential things, like being lonely or insecure. And that worked; it worked perfectly well. Until it didn't.

\--------

He and Sherlock were separated by six years. Six years that sometimes seemed like no time at all but more often than not felt like a lifetime. He was 23 the first time Sherlock overdosed on drugs. He'd passed out in an alleyway, completely stoned and cold to the world. A group of middle-aged ex-convicts had found his body. All they saw was a seventeen-year-old virgin. Myrcoft still shivered to think what almost happened to Sherlock that night, though to this day he didn't know. And Sherlock would never know if Mycroft had anything to say about it.

A cop had come to his rescue, deftly chasing off the would-be rapists and taking Sherlock to the hospital. Mycroft had found out by accident when he was going through the CC-TV footage as a favor for someone. He saw the cop bring Sherlock in, and had rushed off to find out what had happened.

The cop had been very good about it and told him everything he knew, which wasn't much. Mycroft had been on the verge of panic - people had tried to hurt his _little brother!_ \- and the cop had bought him a cup of coffee and calmed him down. Mycroft had thanked him, greeted Sherlock when he awoke with a few terse words - receiving only insults in return - and had systematically tracked down every one of the criminals and eliminated them.

A man from MI6 had found out about the last part, and had dug and dug until he knew why. Mycroft had tried to throw the man off the scent and cover up his involvement, but it hadn't worked. Much to his surprise, instead of getting him fired, the man had offered Mycroft a job. A chance to expand his power (though he hadn't known that; the man was good, but not that good). Mycroft had said yes.

The second OD had come a year later. Sherlock had quit going to Uni, and had been bumming around the city. This time it appeared to be genuinely an accident, but it had been brought on by Sherlock's uncontrollable using. He'd been running around some park, screaming obscenities as people.

The copper from a year ago had advanced to be an officer, and had tracked Mycroft down via a few friends in MI5. Sherlock was in lock-up.

Mycroft went to pick him up and took him to rehab. Sherlock hadn't been in a position to turn him down, though he complained bitterly. The next day Mycroft turned up at New Scotland Yard with a cup of coffee - black, double sweet, the way the officer took it, remembered a year later - and a business card. It was an offer of help if ever it was needed. It was a thank you.

For nearly a decade, Sherlock remained mostly drug-free and stable. He travelled around Europe, collecting random data and immersing himself in everything foreign. He lived from hand to mouth, often begging and stealing his meals, but it kept his mind active and off drugs.

Mycroft rocketed up through the government, his nest getting more elaborate and encompassing with each passing year. He enjoyed the feelings of power, control, responsibility, respect. It helped him ignore the lingering insecurities that still rattled about in the back of his head. He still exercised and skipped meals and worked the most ridiculous of hours; he was convinced it would keep him sane.

He kept an eye on his little brother, or course. After two overdoses, two near-death experiences that Sherlock too often just brushed off, how could he not. Someone had to be responsible, and it clearly wasn't going to be Sherlock.

And yet, the little troublemaker still managed to escape him and ended up passed out on the bank of the Themes, high as the sky. Again. One of Mycroft's agents found him this time, and Mycroft had him taken to a hospital. Sherlock spent a year arguing and screaming and crying before finally going clean.

\--------

That year was the cause of their current relationship. Before, it had been just sibling rivalry; now, it was true and bitter loathing. Mycroft took it and moved on, not letting the bitter insults pierce his thick skin. He worked harder than ever, lest he have to stop and think. Think about himself.

Eventually, Sherlock reached out to an old associate, a former police officer who had advanced to the level of D.I. Mycroft was glad; it would give Sherlock focus and purpose. It was then that his phone rang.

The number was one he did not recognize, which was rare. It was the copper, the officer, the Detective Inspector. The man who knew too much about Mycroft, who Mycroft could never seem to get out of his life. Gregory Lestrade. Wanted to tell him Sherlock was consulting. He remembered how much Mycroft cared. Offered to tell him if anything happened to Sherlock. Understood why they didn't get along (brothers of his own; two, older and younger; one younger sister). Asked if Mycroft ever wanted to get coffee again.

Coffee. Again. Did _Mycroft_ want to get coffee. Yes, he did. He wanted desperately to be brave enough to say yes. He said he was sorry, that he was too busy, maybe later. A pity, Lestrade had said; maybe later.

\--------

Years later, Mycroft was sitting in a chair at the Diogenes Club. A paper proclaiming his little brother a fake and a criminal and a murderer rested on one arm, his phone was perched on the other. A glass of scotch was in one had. An indulgement, for now it began. Now he _couldn't_ watch over his brother; he couldn't protect him from afar, or plot beside him. He had to let Sherlock handle Moriarty on his own, like only Sherlock could.

His phone lit up and Mycroft picked it up to view the text, expecting it to be John. But no. It was Lestrade, with... an offer for coffee.

Mycroft took a deep breath and the insecurities in the back of his head rushed forward. His weight, his body, imperfect, disgusting.

**Why?**

**Cause you need it and I want to help**

**Why?**

**Cause you always worry about your brother, so I'm worrying about you**

**Why?**

**Oh, come on Mycroft you're smarter than that**

**I must be incorrect.**

**Or you could be correct**

**Please come get coffee Mycroft**

Mycroft stood, setting the Scotch on the table next to the newspaper and tucked his phone into his pocket. Coffee. Because he cared. He _cared._ Imperfections and all. His phone lit up again and Mycroft clicked it on.

**Fine, I'll say it. I love you. Please come have coffee**

**I'm coming, Greg. Thank you.**

**See you soon, love**


End file.
